A Tale of Two Mockingjays
by code65536
Summary: AU story of the latter half of the Hunger Games trilogy. What would've happened if the characters, schemes, and the war were more realistic and believable? The villains are more devious and less tacky, and Madge gets to play a larger role.


**Disclaimer:** This story contains characters and passages of text that are the intellectual property of Suzanne Collins.

This is an alternate-universe story that covers the latter half of the _Hunger Games_ trilogy. What would have happened if the characters, schemes, and the war were more realistic and believable? This is my attempt at reimagining how the story _should_ have progressed, while at the same time shining a bit of light on my favorite minor character, Madge. The villains are more devious and less tacky, and the story is, in some respects, a darker one—there is a reason why I categorized this story under _Tragedy_ (you have been warned).

You can find the commentary and author's notes for each chapter, as well as a downloadable e-book version of the story for Kindles at **r.c64k[dot]com/2mj**

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><p><em><strong>Katniss<strong>_

"And now we honor our third Quarter Quell," says the president. The little boy in white steps forward, holding out the box as he opens the lid. We can see the tidy, upright rows of yellowed envelopes. Whoever devised the Quarter Quell system had prepared for centuries of Hunger Games. The president removes an envelope clearly marked with a 75. He runs his finger under the flap and pulls out a small square of paper. Without hesitation, he reads, "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that fortunes can reverse at any time, the odds of the reaping shall be inverted."

The crowd on television is silent. No doubt they are as confused as I am. Inverted odds? What does that mean? Could this mean…? I shift my gaze to my mother and Prim, to see if they have had the same thought, but their faces remain twisted in bafflement.

I turn my attention back to the television to see the president reach back into the envelope and pull out a second piece of paper. His voice cuts through the silence, "The exact rule changes for this year's Quarter Quell reaping. Each reaping candidate shall have forty entries, minus the number of their current entries. No reaping candidate shall have fewer than one entry."

I gasp, and my arms instinctively reach out for Prim. She must have realized what this means, as she flings herself into my embrace. _Thirty-eight entries._ I feel her trembling in my arms. "There will still be thousands of slips, Prim," I whisper.

But I know that realistically, the odds are not in her favor. My chest tightens at the thought that my efforts to keep her safe from the reaping have not only been futile, but will instead have the opposite effect this year. And I can't volunteer for her again.

"Besides," I finally add, "your name was already drawn last year. They won't draw your name two years in a row." This is a lie, of course. The names of victors never go back into the reaping bowls, but the names of those who were volunteered for do. It's true that nobody has ever been drawn twice, but that is only because the odds of that happening are very low. And the odds and I are not very good friends. But it is so agonizing to see Prim gripped in fear that I feel like I have to say _something_ to reassure her. Or maybe I am really trying to reassure myself, to try to push away the powerlessness that I feel.

Suddenly, another thought strikes me. The Capitol audience would love to see me forced to mentor my own sister, and it would be a perfect opportunity for President Snow to punish me for my stunt with the berries. With so few slips, being drawn twice would surely raise people's eyebrows, but this year, the inverted odds can provide cover and make it believable. I can feel the blood draining from my face as this scenario works its way through my mind. Fortunately, my mother, who had joined me in cradling Prim, seems to sense my new unease, and gently pulls Prim away from me and into her arms.

I need to shield Prim from the sight of the panic that must be painted across my face. I must be strong for her. After all, _I_'m the one who is safe from the reaping. "I'll get dinner ready," I say, hoping that a moment alone will allow me to regain my composure.

We eat in silence. Nobody dares to mention what is in all of our thoughts, as if it would all go away if we simply refused to acknowledge it. My mother tries to talk about which of my wedding dresses people would likely vote for, but Prim's earlier excitement has completely disappeared.

I can't taste the food as I mechanically chew each mouthful. I contemplate what this means. Merchant families who have long felt relatively safe from the reapings will find that the odds will not be in their favor this year. Families who have sacrificed and endured so much hardship to shelter their children from the reaping will have that effort thrown back in their faces. Families like ours and the Hawthornes. I can imagine Gale's anger and helplessness at the number of slips that Rory will have in the reaping bowl. Those years of toil will backfire this year. And Madge! My closest friend these past few months will have thirty-four entries this year—more than I have ever had. Will they spare her because she is the Mayor's daughter?

Of course, no child in the districts is ever truly immune from the reaping. Prim was reaped last year despite having had just a single slip in that bowl. But this Quarter Quell heightens that reality. _That nobody can be truly safe from the Capitol._

_**Madge**_

I lie awake in bed, staring blankly at the gently-swaying shadows on my ceiling cast by the tree outside my window. I'm exhausted, but I can't sleep. My mind is heavy with thoughts about the evening's reading of the card and the conversation with my father that took place after.

"Madgie," my father started, using a childhood nickname that somehow felt wrong at the moment, "there's nothing to worry about."

"And how do you know that?" I snapped back, surprised at my anger. "My name is going to be in that bowl just like everyone else!"

"You're my daughter. Everything will be fine, I promise," he replied softly after a pause.

"Of course," I said with a sigh. I knew that he was lying. It wasn't just that the words sounded forced or that his voice lacked its usual confidence. I also knew from eavesdropping on conversations through the thin walls and sneaking around in his office that the Capitol had become dissatisfied with him. Not that anyone needed to steal glances at official communiqués to guess this. Romulus Thread is clearly the one who is really in charge of the district now, and he reports not to my father, but to Chief Peacekeeper Constantine—President Snow's right-hand man. Still, I didn't want to let my father know about the things that I did behind his back, that I knew that, behind the celebratory façade, the Capitol really viewed Katniss and Peeta as dangerous threats, that the Capitol blamed his lax policies for having bred the rebellious spirit in Katniss, or that old Cray had been sent to a Capitol prison. So I dropped the subject and instead asked something about Katniss's upcoming wedding. I couldn't remember what we said, but I do remember the mood relaxing. Maybe he thought that the Capitol going ahead with the wedding was a signal that things will be all right and will eventually return to normal.

_Why was I so upset?_ Yes, I will have thirty-four slips, but there will also be many more slips in the bowl this year—about twice as many, by my estimates. I will have only thirty-four slips in a bowl with well over _ten thousand_ other slips. Of course, my odds will be much worse this year, but they will still be slightly better than the odds that Katniss faced last year.

I had snapped at my father when he tried to reassure me. With a lie. Someone who barely has any power over the district that he supposedly governs certainly has no power over a _Capitol_ institution like the reaping. And I doubt that there is anyone who would be willing to risk doing a favor for someone in such poor standing with the Capitol.

Of course, I haven't been entirely truthful with him, either—he doesn't know the things that I have overheard or read—but does he really think that I am still so young and naïve to be reassured like this?

Or maybe he said it for my mother's benefit. With her silence, it often feels as if she's not there. I think back to the moment of the reading of the card, trying to remember her reaction. An image of her eyes widening and mouth parting in shock flashes behind my eyes. Of course! Her twin sister—my Aunt Maysilee—had died in the Games. I don't want to imagine the kinds of anxieties and fears an announcement like this could stir up inside her. I suddenly feel guilty about my anger towards my father. What's the point of worrying and loading one's mind with such burdens when there is nothing that he—or anyone—can do to make the situation better? This is really no different than the morphling that my mother takes—something to ease the burden when there's nothing else that can be done. And my mother, in her condition, probably isn't aware of just how powerless my father has become. Maybe ignorance _is_ bliss, after all.

_There is nothing that can be done._

But what if there _is_ something that I can do? What if there is a way to escape the reaping? To help my father regain control of the district? If only I could think of _something_. But _what_? My eyes droop as the thought, still looping in my head, becomes incoherent.

I'm relieved to see the sunlight flooding my room when my eyes open again. It's a new day. Saturday. A day without school and the Capitol's indoctrination.

I prepare a breakfast of tea and toasted bread with jam for my mother. Our maid usually does this, but I insist on taking over during the weekends. She seems visibly relaxed when I set the tray down. I'm not sure if my father had succeeded in reassuring her or if I'm simply seeing the effects of a fresh dose of morphling. She smiles, and we exchange a few words, but neither of us mentions last night's announcement.

After I finish my own breakfast, I decide to visit Katniss. I need a friend, someone to talk to. Someone who understands.

"Hello, Madge," says Prim, answering the door. Her voice sounds flat, lacking its usual brightness and cheer, and the infectious grin that usually greets me has been replaced by a weak smile. I guess her thoughts are weighed down by the thirty-eight slips that she will have this year.

"Hi Prim!" I say, trying for an upbeat tone. "How are you this morning?"

"I'm okay," she replies, her face brightening a little in response. "Peeta's here to help Katniss with our family book. I'm helping, too." As if on cue, I detect the sweet scent of freshly-baked bread.

"Sounds interesting!" A grin creeps across my face. I know now what I could do. "Mind if I join in?"


End file.
